


Honest Mistake

by brethilaki



Series: Twins [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Internship (2013)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Casual Sex, Come Shot, Crack, Crack Crossover, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Frottage, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Semi-Public Sex, one-sided Derek/Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 15:15:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brethilaki/pseuds/brethilaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek goes clubbing in LA and sees someone he thinks he knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honest Mistake

**Author's Note:**

> Cheesy, undeniably, but it had to be done.

Stuart was sitting at the bar, having more fun than he was trying to show, when a hand squeezed his shoulder.

"Stiles?"  
  
"More of an 'uart' sound at the end,” he said, without looking up from his phone, “but good try, there."  
  
"...What?"  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"Are you drunk? Stiles, it’s Derek. What the hell are you doing here? Scott's not here is he?"  
  
"Uh. Look... Derek,” he began, glancing up briefly to give the... gruff and oddly attractive stranger a deadpan glare. “I know you must be desperate for tips but you could at least try to talk up the ladies first."  
  
"I—what? I'm not a stripper!"  
  
"Yeah, well, I'm not a 'Stiles,' but how about I give you... five dollars for a lap dance and you leave me alone?"  
  
Derek made an uncomfortable sound like something between a scoff and choking on air. "You're 16. Go home."  
  
"I’m—what?" Stuart laughed drily, taking a long gulp of his drink. "I'm 21, dipshit." He glared briefly up from his phone again. "And—whoa you thought I was drunk? Look, you're so hammered your eyes are red," he scoffed, then did a double-take. "Your.... irises are red." He squinted. "That's not possible. And I'm not.... that drunk..." He blinked several times very quickly as Derek watched, taken aback.   
  
"Colored contacts?" he supplied slowly. Stuart's eyes focused on Derek’s again.   
  
"They're... not red anymore."  
  
"I.... took them out.” He paused, brow knit, to examine Stuart with disconcerting intensity, and Stuart got the strange impression that he was being... sniffed. “You're really not Stiles."  
  
Stuart shrugged off the creepy vibe he was getting and produced his driver's license with a forced sigh. "And not underage!" he said with tightly sarcastic enthusiasm. Derek was eying him with greater and greater interest, eyes glinting but definitely no longer red.  
  
"What??” Stuart interjected into the heavy silence. “Okay, ten dollars for a lap dance and you leave me alone, you creep, is that enough?"  
  
"Is that really what you want?" and Derek was growling, like actually growling: it was impressive and a little frightening but strangely arousing. Fortifying his stony wall of indifference, Stuart waved a ten dollar bill in Derek’s face.   
  
"Last offer before call security. I'm an intern with limited disposable resources."   
  
Derek's lips curled into a dangerous snarl and he lashed out, but instead of taking the money, grabbed Stuart's collar and dragged him to a dark corner of the bar near the passage leading to the restrooms and threw him against the wall with inhuman strength.  
  
"Whoa—!" Stuart complained but lost his breath when a warm body ground into him, too-sharp teeth nipping at his pink lips till they parted for a shallow breath, inviting the intrusion of a skilled and subduing tongue. Stuart buckled into the heat, glasses half falling off his face, flush creeping over his marble white skin like a dusting of pink sugar sprinkles on chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.   
  
"Asghsksjdj," he strangled out, bucking his hips even as he protested, "shit, shit, shit, this is not—! This is terrible lap dance!"  
  
"...’s on the house," Derek growled (why was he so good at that?), massaging Stuart's crotch until he hissed,  
  
"Oh... oh... okay, wow!" and rolled his dark amber eyes behind his half hooded lids. Then he stumbled along drunkenly (partly because of alcohol but mostly thanks to hormones) as Derek dragged him down the corridor to the bathrooms and shoved him into the handicapped stall, locking the door behind them.   
  
Stuart felt his shirt peel away from his skin and over his head, his pants drop... and he screamed into Derek's hand as he felt a throbbing shaft of flesh nuzzle against his own hardening cock. He grasped at Derek's hips, trying to get a handle, pull them closer, but Derek took his arms and pinned them useless above his head against the wall with one hand, fitting his other hand between them—wrapping around their cocks as they moved, or rubbing the heads or rolling the balls—as he pressed Stuart into the wall.   
  
Stuart writhed, hands clutching at empty air. Derek snapped his hips, sinking his teeth into the base of Stuart's neck like footfalls into virgin snow. Blood trickled down Stuart's back; sharp nails clawed at his wrists and it was such a push and pull of pain and pleasure, sharp and soft that he couldn't bear it, came fast and hard into the space between their bodies. Head spinning, he felt the grip on his wrists slacken, felt himself sliding down the wall, heard a sharp, muted gasp of "Stiles!" and felt spurts of warm, salty come splash across his body. He lulled his head back and opened his eyes staring up through long lashes.  
  
Derek was looking down at him with an expression of vague horror. Wordlessly he turned and unlocked the stall, bolting for the bathroom door, pulling at his pants as he went.  
“Yeah, it was nice meeting you, too! Asshole,” Stuart called after him. He groaned and felt around for the pocket of his pants, finding his phone, which had escaped the line of fire and was mercifully clean of jizz.  
  
Unlike his hands.  
  
It smeared on the screen.  
  
“Fuck!” he breathed. “Ugh, gross!” Gathering at least three feet of toilet paper, he scrubbed his front and his phone thoroughly before tucking himself in and straightening up to leave the stall.  
  
He checked his reflection in the phone, forgetting about the mirrors covering the wall across from him, and walked out the door—  
  
—straight into a brawl. Billy was throwing a punch, Nick a headbutt. Yo-Yo sprang up a few feet in front of him and onto the shoulders of an angry and slightly startled-looking man. Which made Stuart raise an eyebrow and all but... honestly? He’d just had gay almost-sex with a creepy stranger in the bathroom of a nightclub. So  
  
“Fuck it,” he muttered, shoving his phone back in his pocket and plunging into the fray. Not that he would ever admit, but... all in all, it was turning out to be a pretty okay night.


End file.
